The Skylark of Space E. E. Smith (top novels to read .txt) 📖

“No, especially after the failure of his demonstration the next morning. You see, he tried to prove to the others that he was right, and nothing happened. He has found out since that an electrical machine in another room, which was not running that morning, played a very important part. When the copper refused to act as it had the night before they all took the snap judgment that he had suffered an attack of temporary insanity, and that the solution was worthless. They called him ‘Nobody Holme.’ ”

“It almost fits, at that!” exclaimed Dorothy, laughing.

“But if he thought of that,” she added, thoughtfully, “if he was brilliant enough to build up such a wonderful theory⁠ ⁠… think out such a thing as actually traveling to the stars⁠ ⁠… all on such a slight foundation of fact⁠ ⁠… I wonder why he couldn’t have told me?”

She hadn’t meant to utter the last thought. Nobody must know how being left out of it had hurt her, and she would have recalled the words if she could. Crane understood, and answered loyally.

“He will tell you all about it very soon, never fear. His is the mind of a great scientist, working on a subject of which but very few men have even an inkling. I am certain that the only reason he thought of me is that he could not finance the investigation alone. Never think for an instant that his absorption implies a lack of fondness for you. You are his anchor, his only hold on known things. In fact, it was about this that I came to see you. Dick is working himself at a rate that not even a machine can stand. He eats hardly anything, and if he sleeps at all, I have never caught him at it. That idea is driving him day and night, and if he goes on the way he is going, it means a breakdown. I do not know whether you can make him listen to reason or not⁠—certainly no one else can. If you think you can do it, that is to be your job, and it will be the biggest one of the three.”

“How well you understand him,” Dorothy said, after a pause. “You make me feel ashamed, Martin. I should have known without being told. Then I wouldn’t have had these nasty little doubts about him.”

“I should call them perfectly natural, considering the circumstances,” he answered. “Men with minds like Dick’s are rare. They work on only one track. Your part will be hard. He will come to you, bursting with news and aching to tell you all about his theories and facts and calculations, and you must try to take his mind off the whole thing and make him think of something else. It looks impossible to me.”

The smile had come back to Dorothy’s face. Her head, graced by its wealth of gleaming auburn hair, was borne proudly, and glancing mischief lit her violet eyes.

“Didn’t you just tell me nothing is impossible? You know, Martin, that I can make Dicky forget everything, even interstellar⁠—did I get that word right?⁠—space itself, with my violin.”

“Trying to beguile a scientist from his hobby is comparable only to luring a drug addict away from his vice⁠ ⁠… but I would not be surprised if you could do it,” he slowly replied.

For he had heard her play. She and Seaton had been caught near his home by a sudden shower while on horseback, and had dashed in for shelter. While the rain beat outside and while Shiro was preparing one of his famous suppers, Crane had suggested that she pass the time by playing his “fiddle.” Dorothy realized, with the first sweep of the bow, that she was playing a Stradivarius, the like of which she had played before only in her dreams. She forgot her listeners, forgot the time and the place, and poured out in her music all the beauty and tenderness of her nature. Soft and full the tones filled the room, and in Crane’s vision there rose a home filled with happy work, with laughter and companionship, with playing children who turned their faces to their mother as do flowers to the light. Sensing the girl’s dreams as the music filled his ears, he realized as never before in his busy, purposeful life how beautiful a home with the right woman could be. No thought of love for Dorothy entered his mind, for he knew that the love existing between her and his friend was of the kind that nothing could alter, but he felt that she had unwittingly given him a great gift. Often thereafter in his lonely hours he had imagined that dream-home, and nothing less than its perfection would ever satisfy him.

For a time they walked on in silence. On Dorothy’s face was a tender look, the reflection of her happy thoughts, and in Crane’s mind floated again the vision of his ideal home, the home whose central figure he was unable to visualize. At last she turned and placed her hand on his arm.

“You have done a great deal for me⁠—for us,” she said simply. “I wish there were something I could do for you in return.”

“You have already done much more than that for me, Dorothy,” he answered, more slowly even than usual. “It is hard for me to express just what it is, but I want you to know that you and Dick mean much to me⁠ ⁠… You are the first real woman I have ever known, and some day, if life is good to me, I hope to have some girl as lovely care for me.”

Dorothy’s sensitive face flushed warmly. So unexpected and sincere was his praise that it made her feel both proud and humble. She had never realized that this quiet, apparently unimaginative man had seen all the ideals she expressed in her music. A woman expects to appear lovely to her lover, and to the men who would be her lovers if they